Along the hot road, and through the village, where her strange, dazed look awoke wonder in the women’s minds, and set their tongues wagging in pity, toiled Margery. She was filled with but one thought, one terrible thought, which chilled her heart and roused her pride. Stuart Crosbie had deceived her; he had deliberately sought her, and--a blush dyed her cheeks at the remembrance--won her love, her pure, innocent love, by false vows, which were laughed to scorn, perchance, with his cousin when he had left her. She did not doubt the truth of the words she had just heard; they had been spoken so naturally, the outcome of the speaker’s knowledge. Had he not seen the lovers together? Was he not in the house, with every opportunity of judging? Now all was explained. Stuart had made his accident a pretext for leaving her in her sorrow without a word or sign. Her youth, her joy, her light of life was gone, and henceforth she was alone in the world. Her heart raised a cry against this man. Why had he sought her? Why had he ruthlessly broken the charm of childhood, and given her the sorrows of a woman? Why not have left her in her innocence, content in her humble life? During the past three months Margery had lived in an atmosphere of indescribable happiness. She did not stop to reason with herself as to whether Stuart Crosbie’s comings and goings had not an unspeakable interest for her. She had welcomed him as her friend, the dearest, in truth, she possessed, until the day in Weald Wood, and then what joy filled her being! Stuart loved her. The truth was revealed to her; the key to her contentment--her joyous spirits never saddened save when by the sick woman’s couch--was grasped. And now all was at an end. An indescribable pain pierced her heart; she never realized till now how deeply her affections were centered in him. Her shamed modesty resented the wound he had inflicted. She recalled the words he had spoken, the looks she had given, the kisses he had stolen from her lips, and at each thought she grew fainter and pressed her small hands against her heart to stay its throbbings. She could think of nothing but the two figures standing in Weald Wood, with the sunshine overhead; and the picture brought a flush of shame to her face, a weight of unspeakable grief to her heart. She reached the cottage gate at last, and advanced wearily to the door. The reality of Mrs. Morris’ death came to her then in all its bitter force. In all the days of her childhood, when trouble had overtaken her, she had sought the gentle woman whose couch now stood blank and empty, and had found solace in her soothing love. Now she had none to whom she could turn, none to bring her peace.